Dear Laura,
I finished this book last night and saved some lines that I thought might be useful for prompts for a couple of sessions. See what you can salvage.
- Vicky H.
Where do we go when we die?
I don't know. Where are we now?
In the middle of life, he said, I drew the path of it upon a map and I studied it for a long time.
In any case it is difficult to stand outside of one's desires and see things of their own volition.
But then if we don't know ourselves in the waking world, what chance in dreams?
How comes she to own a world of night at all?
When you look at the world is there a point in time where the scene becomes the remembered?
For each event is revealed to us at the surrender of every alternative course.
I think you got a habit of making things a bit more complicated that they need to be. Why not just tell the story?
The stars which were belled above them against he eternal blackness of the world's nativity.
In any case this was a deep dream for the dreamer and in such dreams there is a language that is older than the spoken word at all.
He thought he saw in the world's science a great conspiracy.
Yet it is the narrative that is the life of the dream while the events themselves are often interchangeable. The events of the waking world are forced upon us and the narrative is the unguessed axis along which they must be strung.
But in dreams we stand in the great democracy of the possible and there we are right pilgrims indeed.
Every man's death is a standing in for every other. There is no way to abate that fear of it except to love that man that stands for us.
The dust of the few cars hung in the dry air long after the cars were gone.
It was just this big whispering sound all over. Geese by the thousands... They blacked out the moon.
I wouldn't have the crazy bitch on the place, he said.
He gathered her black hair in his hand and spread it across his chest like a blessing.
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